( perhaps it is just that lucifer is drawn to sin.

the inhuman sense in him knows it to be happening, the precipice of some horrible choice, the weakening resolve of the man turning from the dark to find the light. silly choice. novel choice, really — the presumption of sin as defined by god is hidden in every person, just waiting to crawl out. but luci's magic is all built on the notion of sacrifice, making marcus keane a particular beacon of unclaimed spiritual energy. the man who has dedicated himself to chastity, to god, at the juncture of rutting, cumming, ferality? lucifer could no sooner deny himself a cup of hot whiskey.

he sees him prostrating, and finds the motion as enticing as it is disgusting. reminds him for the early days of life, when he and all his brethren angels would beg and pray and hope for a flash of god's ankles, a sign of his light, his listening. snorting, luci steps up. keeps stepping, until his bare foot is on the back of marcus' head, kicking his face down into the ground and holding him there, annoyed, aroused, yes. )

Sorry, did I interrupt something? ( he presses harder, imagine the mortal's head gone splat. maybe later. it'd be a waste of his sacrifice — he'd probably prefer to die than fuck. ) Seems you were wasting your time, I fear. The only one to answer your prayers is me, and I'm not especially good at listening. ( his foot moves, plants in front of his face. he sticks it out, toes pointed. ) Kiss it. I'll consider taking pity on you.